


War

by heatherforrest



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Historical Fanfiction, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherforrest/pseuds/heatherforrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of history based Johnlock fictions. These will mostly take place in the US or have events that relate to the US because I'm in a US history class and it's fascinating and I am also a small nerd who writes history fanfics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	War

“March.”

John Watson walked, shoulders straight, head up, eyes watching. This had to be the fourth time they had walked this stupid pattern. General Lestrade had to be bored or in a bad mood. “Again!” Lestrade yelled out. Again, the soldiers went through the march. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a tall lanky figure in dark colours run up to Lestrade. The person handed Lestrade papers and Lestrade moved so suddenly that John turned to look. 

“Soldier Watson! Get back in queue!” Lestrade roared at John. He turned back so quickly that a line of mud flew up from under his boot, but he had had enough of few to see the other person. He was a boy, probably a little younger than John, but not too much, probably 15-16. And he was handsome. 

The boy walked out after talking to Lestrade for a few minutes. John’s queue had turned and so he got to watch the back of the boy get smaller until John’s queue turned again.

The mess hall was louder than usual. John picked up his tray from the row on the counter thing. He’d been training for three months and learned most of the names of important people and things but never actually figured out what they called the row of trays, each heaped with food. Looking around, John scanned the huge room for a seat. The other soldiers sat in clumps of friends, but John had never been good at making friends. He generally ate his food as fast as he could and then wandered around the camp.

John found a table in the the corner of the room that was mostly empty. There was one person there, but it was better than the other options. John walked over to the table, dropped his tray on the table and plopped down at the seat. He accidentally brushed knees with the kid across from him and he flushed bright red. The kid didn’t notice, he was bent over a book, dark curls falling in his way, cold and untouched food next to his elbow.

“Whilst you were marching, you noticed Lestrade and I talking. You saw something and turned, what was it?” 

John jumped. “Pardon?” 

“You heard what I said. Hearing is not one of your health problems.” 

“The papers you gave Lestrade, he was surprised about something. And who are you? And how do you know hearing isn’t a problem?” 

“John Watson, the British military would never allow a man with a hearing issue into their military. Those papers were classified and Lestrade did not like what was on them. Sherlock Holmes.” 

“You know my name?” 

“Badge number 221. Of course. How is your father? Is he out of the hospital yet?” 

John leaned forward. “How do you know about my father?” John’s thoughts attacked in full force, had he said something about his father? Was it obvious? Did other people know? 

Sherlock closed his book and sat up, looking at John through his tri-coloured eyes. “No, no one else knows. No one on this bloody base is smart enough. Your father is an alcoholic, and that’s not good in the government. He went into the hospital last week for alcohol poisoning, but he’s back in stable condition or has gone home. Which is it? Oh, nevermind. You’ll ask how I know. I know because you write with your left hand when you are nervous, the ink line is more wobbly than on your right as your hands shake when you are nervous. You have bits of stamp stick on your right hand, telling me that you are a dominantly right handed but you learned to use your left hand to write. You have a mark on your right wrist from your watch, and the watch was originally not yours. The watch was made for a man, a man with apparently a lot of money, thus government, and there are scratches around it from your dad trying to change the time when he is drunk because in his drunk mind he believes it will be easiest not to have to face Winston Churchill with a hangover and he would rather not do that so he just sets the time on his watch back, believing he will actually set the real time back.”

John sat back in surprise. This kid had told John about John’s family’s troubles. It was almost like Sherlock had always been there in his life, documenting his family troubles. “That’s amazing.” 

It was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. “That is a first.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Normally, people tell me to piss off.” 

John’s stomach had rumbled, so he had started to eat. He nearly choked. “That’s very rude. You’re intelligent, why are they insulting your intelligence? Oh, and you should probably eat.” 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t generally eat, I’m fine.” 

“Sherlock, you need to eat. Britain might be going to war. I hardly know you but I know you’re way too skinny to be healthy.” 

Sherlock looked up again from his book. “Oh, yes. An army doctor. Of course. I should have seen that. Why didn’t I see that?” He scowled angrily. “I always miss something.” 

John raised an eyebrow, but continued eating. He had stuff he needed to do after lunch, which was thankfully long. “But still. You even had the job my father had. That is bloody incredible. You need to eat.” 

“I’m fine!” 

“You’re as thin as a bloody stick!” 

“That is my problem.” 

John finished eating his lunch in silence and stood up to put his tray back. Dumping the tray on the counter, he caught a glance of raw emotions from Sherlock. Loneliness and sadness, then a touch of anger. Sherlock collected his book and lunch and hurried out of the mess hall.

John checked his watch that had scratches on it from his drunk father to see how much time he had before lunch was over. John still had about twenty minutes, so he followed Sherlock at a slow pace so no one would actually think John was following him. Sherlock walked fast, evidently hoping no one would follow him. His black coat billowed out behind him (they had let him keep that?) as his long legs carried him quickly away. 

Sherlock was walking towards one of the almost village homes and opened the door to letter B. John knew that important people on the base lived in the village, Baker Street as everyone called them. The generals probably didn’t stay here, but then why did they let a kid stay here? 

Sherlock stepped into the house and slammed the door shut behind him. John cringed as he heard the rattling of the glass. He waited a second, now unsure of himself if he really wanted to talk to the infamous Sherlock Holmes.  
But he did. John sucked in a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

“What?” Sherlock opened the door and snarled. He noticed it was John. “Sorry. I was thinking it was going to be someone else.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock looked confused. “For what?” 

“For picking about a subject that was apparently a touchy one for you. I apologise.” 

“No. It’s not your fault. People say I am a psychopath, I’m not, I’m a high functioning sociopath, I get upset about odd things and am just generally a horrible person.” 

John wanted to reach up and grab Sherlock’s chin and make him hold his head still so John could figure out what was really going on in that mind. His blue, green, grey, yellow who even knows coloured eyes kept flicking about as if he was nervous. If they would hold still for just one, one, moment, John could see. But maybe that was the idea. 

They stood in the doorway of Baker Street B for a moment before John heard the bells ringing for lunch to be over. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Sherlock Holmes. We should have lunch more often.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, that would be nice.” He coughed. “Eyes front, soldier.” 

John’s gaze had fallen and he coughed uncomfortably. He smiled at Sherlock and then hurried off to military strategy.

Military strategy was boring, actually. It always had been, they talked about the same rubbish about what to do if the same scenario happened. And to make the class even more unbearable, Anderson was in the class. John had no idea what he’d ever done to Anderson, but the guy hated him. 

John felt something hit him in the neck. Risking a glance at General Augustus, he glanced behind him. Anderson was wearing a snide grin. “I saw you hanging out with the freak earlier. Was he using you as an experiment? I bet he was, or he threatened you into doing it.” 

 

“Piss off, Anderson. You’re a prick.” 

“Oh! On the defense now, are we?” 

“ANDERSON AND WATSON!” General Augustus snapped. “If you would like to continue secondary school, I would suggest you go back before you both get killed in an enemy attack.” 

John cast one more glower and Anderson and turned to listen to General Augustus’s boring talks again. But he couldn't keep his mind off of the boy he had just met. Sherlock was so peculiar and different from everyone else he had ever met. John had had girlfriends before he was shipped off for the army, but never really anyone special or even interesting. 

Sherlock was way more interesting than anyone he’d met. He wanted to get to know Sherlock better, he was utterly fascinating and wonderful. 

Dinner was regular. Sherlock wasn’t there. John did what he was used to, wolf down his food and then walk. He stepped into his quarters, dropped his army issued coat and picked up one of his favourite jumpers. He laid down on his bed and looked at the oatmeal coloured jumper. If he closed his eyes and breathed deep, he could still smell the bread his mother always made. John stood up, yanked it over his head and felt like a little boy again. He liked that. John picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder and walked into the cool night. 

He walked past the bright and loud dining hall (it was loud from the outside) and into the woods surrounding the camp. The clearing where he generally relaxed was empty as usual. John dropped his bag on the rock and looked up. He could see the stars and the moon. He watched the stars, hoping to see a shooting star. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

John jumped, reaching for his gun. 

Flash of black cloth and a leather clad hand was around his wrist and another around his mouth. The gun was taken from his hands slowly. John’s eyes were filling with panic, until a porcelain face took up his vision field. Sherlock. 

“You arse! I would have shot you! You are in a military camp, you sneak up on a random soldier and you make me believe I am about to get killed!”  
Sherlock silenced him by pressing his lips softly against John’s. John’s breath stopped for a second. That was undeniably the most pleasurable feeling John had ever experienced. 

Sherlock broke the kiss after no more than two seconds. “It’s a good day to be an astronomer.” 

“You’re blushing.” 

“It’s the cold, John. It’s four degrees and dropping steadily.” Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat up closer around his cheekbones and wrapped a blue scarf around the collar. 

John sat on the rock and looked through his bag. He pulled out a creamy coloured letter and started to read.

Dear John,

Harry and I are alright. Papa is out of the hospital, thankfully no one from Churchill’s administration found out about what he was in for. Hopefully no one on Downing Street finds out. We had to take him to a hospital on the East Side, but he is completely alright.

Harry’s doing well. She and Clara are thinking about their choices, it’s illegal, obviously. They aren’t sure about what to do about their situation, so we’re just waiting right now. With the threat of the Nazis, it’s best if we don’t mention it. 

Love you as always,  
Mummy, Papa, Harry and Clara.

“Sherlock, my dad is out of the hospital and well.” 

“How is your brother? Is he getting along with his girlfriend? Or shall I say, her girlfriend?” 

Shit. Sherlock was going to dig up all the skeletons the Watson family had. 

“Harry, short for Harriet.” 

“I had noticed that.” 

“Oh, goodness.” John buried his hands in his hair and felt his eyes start to swell with tears. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”  
The Nazis did not like the homosexuals. They were considered impure, and that’s why John was afraid for Harry. 

John felt warmth next to him. Sherlock was sitting next to him on the rock. “John, I won’t report her. Why would I? You are the first person at this bloody camp who has shown me the slightest bit of kindness. Everyone else here minus the cooks hate me.” 

He had been right. John knew that Sherlock was lonely and used to people leaving him. “That’s terrible. You’ve not had a friend here?” 

“No. I have a friend in Mrs. Hudson, the one cook. And in Molly Hooper, the nurse who works on afternoon shifts. But other than that, no. Not a friend that will actually spend time with me.” 

Sherlock and John both needed a friend. They both found the other interesting, but was a war a really good time to be friends with someone? John knew what wars did to people. His father, for example. His dad had been in the first World War, and it had hurt him mentally and that’s when he started drinking. 

John didn’t want to end up like his dad. If he made a friend, only to lose him, that would be horrible. 

 

The next morning, bright and early, the bells started ringing for the soldiers to get up. John stood up, almost getting kicked in the head by Anderson who was jumping down from his bunk. “Oi! Watch it!” John hissed angrily. 

Anderson mumbled a reply, obviously too tired from sneaking out of camp to go see his girlfriend. He should have stayed in school instead of becoming a soldier. 

Different groups of soldiers left at different times, John ate breakfast later. It was actually boring here a lot, most of the guys went to play games of pool in the lounge area with their friends. They were waiting until the war was started, most of them enjoying the calm before the storm. 

Outside, it was raining. The cool mist clung to everything and many a man had his coat collar turned up against his neck. Stormy skies weren’t the only storms John saw. He noticed Sherlock along the far side of the building and wandered over to where the tall boy stood. “Hello.” 

“John, we need to go to the library.” 

“Why?” 

“I need a book for research. Let’s go.” Sherlock turned tail and strode off, leaving John to run after him. Sherlock looked, well, nice, from behind. His Belstaff coat billowing out behind him and it showed how well dressed the boy actually was. His dark curls formed a halo around his porcelain pale face. 

Sherlock knew his way around the library. He skirted the children area, muttering something about how all the stories ended the same and the only good books were ones on pirates and walked directly into the science section. 

“John, I am looking for a particular book. It’s written by a German scientist, oh don’t be like that, it’s for a reason, and I need the book.” 

John started leafing through the books, unsure of what he was looking for. “The text will start from the bottom and go up instead of down. There aren’t that many German books here, so we should find it by first drill.” 

“I have to eat breakfast?” 

“No, you don’t. We won’t be going to war for a week at least.” 

“What?” 

“Found it. Okay. Here, read of the page numbers that are written down.” Sherlock threw John a rumpled piece of paper with loopy handwriting on it. 

“64, 42, 39, 12, 34, 24 , 69, 32, 45.” 

“That arse. ‘Freak likes John now, what's he trying to do.’ Someone left me this note on the door of Baker Street B. This isn’t secondary school! I thought I’d left this behind me.” 

“How do you know the book was the right one? Aren’t there a lot of books here?” John questioned. 

“Yes, but the note also was written bottom to top, just like German book titles. It’s simple and obvious, whomever wrote the note either wasn’t feeling it or was lazy.” 

The boys left the library to get to the dining hall and eat. It was bacon and bread of some sort, and the mess hall was fuller than usual because of the rain. It was a cold rain that penetrated the deepest and warmest of coats which was rather irritating. The rain smelled like the Thames and was misty and thick. 

Bells started ringing quickly. Five minute warning before they had to leave to go out to drill. John ate his food and chugged the water before saying goodbye to Sherlock and leaving to march in the rain. 

 

By the time they were done, three wet hours later, John was limping. Anderson had been behind John in line and he’d stumbled in one of the ruts in the marching field. Anderson had kicked him in the leg, Lestrade hadn’t noticed, so he had dark brown mark on the back of his calf from Anderson. “Unit 104, report to stock room.” 

Unit 104. John, Henry Morgan, Levi Eckerman, Abe Foreman, Adam Stickney. Five boys to help in stocking area. They’d probably be moving boxes of ammunition. The shipment from the US had come in, they’d have to organise everything. He walked from the muddy marching field to the stock rooms in an Underground platform. 

He heard shouts behind him and heard the thudding of boots hitting the ground behind him. Henry and Abe were laughing, joyous expression on their faces. They slowed down before hitting into John. Henry clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. The man was a little older, in his thirties, but he was very nice. “Hello John. Don’t mind-” Henry turned himself and John away from Abe, “Abe. He’s trying to hit me with mud balls.” 

John laughed, Henry was one of the nicest people on camp and John was glad he was in John’s unit. General Lestrade waiting in the platform, so they hurried down to help sort supplies. 

The boxes were heavy. The United States had not been short on what they gave Great Britain, probably because they had decided to be isolated from the war, but everyone knew that wasn’t going to happen. John thought that they were just waiting until the right moment. The boxes were all marked, ammunition, guns, food, all the works. 

John felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up, expecting to see Lestrade. It was Abe. “I need help moving those boxes. You have these mostly under control, can you help?” 

Nodding, John helped Abe move the heavy boxes. They were informed by Lestrade that the unit had to go to the medical examiner for their weekly health screening and fitness tests, so they left early. 

Sherlock appeared by John’s side near the middle of the camp. Sherlock was shaky for some reason, and his hands kept twitching involuntarily. “Are you alright? What’s wrong, mate?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s nothing. I think the food didn’t agree with me. Do well on your health check, alright?” 

“Alright. If you still look sick when I see you later, I’m taking you to Molly myself. Erm, if. If I see you later, I mean.” 

John’s health screening and fitness screenings were normal, of course. He hadn’t expected anything else, he was fine and strong. He jogged out of the building and walked on the path to B. 

“If you are not John, go the hell away. If you are John, come in.” Sherlock’s croaky voice barely penetrated the door. John opened the door and noticed the lanky boy laying on the narrow bed in the corner. His dark curls were hanging limply around his face. His face was a sickly green colour, and he looked horrible. 

“Jesus, you look terrible.”

“Thank you, doctor. Thank you for that horribly obvious diagnoses.” Sherlock groaned, leaning over the bed to have his face near the rubbish bin. After a few moments, he leaned back and flopped back down on the edge of the bed.

John put his jacket on a chair. “Should I take my boots off? They’re a bit muddy.” 

“Yeah. It’s not clean in here, but it doesn’t need to be muddy.” 

John unlaced his boots and put them next to Sherlock’s shoes. “I’m gonna clean up a bit, okay mate?”

He cracked a window nearest to Sherlock’s bed to help ward off bad odors, and started to collect the piles of papers strewn throughout the tiny house and put them on the desk. Sherlock’s Belstaff was in a heap on the desk, and John picked it up, brushed it off and hung it on the hanger on the door. He had a feeling that the heap of clothes in the corner was to be taken to laundry, so when he was done cleaning off the desk, he noted that Sherlock sleeping peacefully, so he left to drop the clothes off at the laundry. 

When John got back, Sherlock was shaking. His eyes were wide with fear and was muttering things under his breath.  
“Sherlock?” John walked close to Sherlock’s bed, but Sherlock didn’t answer. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock most definitely had a fever, his forehead was burning. He was shivering and still talking about random things. 

Instead of going back to his quarters, John stayed at B. Sherlock’s fever had gone down, and he was now sleeping again. But John didn’t risk going back to his quarters and having Sherlock get sick again. Sherlock could choke on the sick, and that would be horrible. 

John listened to the soft breathing of Sherlock. Steady. In, out. In, out. The lights on the street illuminated just a triangle of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock was handsome. It would almost be a crime not to say that. Sherlock had a long and bony face, high cheekbones and bright eyes that were a combination of blue, green and yellow. They looked different colours in different lights and they were gorgeous. The paleness of Sherlock’s face was offset by his hair. His curls were the colour of dark chocolate, but in the sun had tints of auburn. The rest of Sherlock was lanky. He had long arms and long, long legs. To most, he might look disproportionate. To John, he looked beautiful. 

The next morning, Sherlock was worse. John was tempted to go against what Sherlock had said and get Molly or one of the other nurses. John had slept in patches and got four hours of sleep tops and already missed breakfast and the first fifteen minutes of drill. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock. The poor kid was worse than the day before. John knew he’d been sick a few more times during the night.

A memory flashed back to him. The room was dark, and Sherlock had been expelling gross things from his innards (John was training to be a doctor but still hated to other word) and it had been so violent John had gotten up and rubbed his friend’s back. Even after Sherlock was done, John had kept rubbing Sherlock’s back. Eventually, the brunette had started to doze with his head leaning against John’s shoulder, and John had covered him carefully with a blanket and gone back to his place on the floor. 

 

“John? I need water.” Sherlock said, voice croaking. 

“Okay. I’m getting it.” John crawled out of his sleeping bag and got Sherlock a glass of cool water. Sherlock drank a little and laid back down. 

 

Sherlock watched John as he went to the sink to get Sherlock’s water. The older boy was cute. He was small in stature, but he was strong. John’s face was roundish, not long and weird like Sherlock’s. He had worry lines on his forehead, probably from years of worrying about his father, and he had dirty blond hair with a short haircut. In combination with his liking to wear jumpers, he was absolutely adorable. But that wasn’t the only thing about John Watson. He was plenty smart, kind and strong and he knew how to help people that were in danger. 

 

After Sherlock had a sip of his water, John sat down and looked around the flat. “A violin? You play?” 

Sherlock nodded. “I’m good at it, actually. I can play for you, well, when I’m not sick. “ 

“That would be neat.” 

“You’ve been missing from drill for three days. Missed everything, excluding dinner. Where have you been? This isn’t a game, Watson. You didn’t come here to slack off or do whatever you were doing for the last three days. So tell me.” 

Lestrade was pissed. Rightfully so, but he was pissed. John shifted uncomfortably. “Sherlock Holmes was sick. He refused to go to Molly or one of the nurses here, and I didn’t want to leave him.” 

Lestrade sighed. “Of course. I should have strangled that boy.” John looked alarmed, but Lestrade shook his head. “He’s a brilliant mind, but god, is he an arse. So Sherlock was sick. You didn’t even tell anyone in your unit that you were not going to be there. You probably haven’t even heard the latest war development.”

“I have, actually. Sherlock and I heard it on the radio.” 

“How the bloody hell did he figure that one out?” 

“I don’t know, sir.” 

By the end of the meeting, Lestrade had established that John was to scrub the toilets in the centre of the camp for the next three days. That was a bad punishment in itself. He would also have to do chores around camp, take the rubbish out for Mrs. Hudson and the cooks and help Molly organise medical supplies. 

That night, in his quarters, John was lonely. He and Sherlock really hadn’t talked during the two nights he had spent watching over the younger boy, but he could hear Sherlock’s breathing and it was comforting. The breathing of everyone else in the quarters was almost deafening. John flipped on his side and looked out at the moon, the same moon that had shone upon Sherlock’s face the nights before.

The early bells rang out. Half an hour earlier than John was used to getting up, he got up. He was to help Mrs. Hudson and the cooks clean up the mess hall and take out trash. 

It was another week before John was over with his punishments. He was in the centre of camp when he heard over the system that unit 100-110 had to go for health screening. John’s face kept slipping into a frown while he waited for his turn to be screened for health. It felt like it had been years since he had talked to Sherlock last, and he just wanted to go talk to him. He got odd looks from other soldiers, mostly just Anderson actually vocalised and asked what was so purely ruining John’s life. 

The health check was normal. Regular heart rate and breathing, no limping (minus the fact that he’d been kicked by Anderson (again), but that wasn’t that important) and John was on his way for his fitness test. That was odd for them to have a health screening and a fitness test in one day. Still it had happened, so John didn’t worry. 

The rain picked up after dinner. Once again, Sherlock wasn’t at dinner. John took it upon himself to head to make sure Sherlock was okay and to offer him food if he wanted it. 

John had barely run the doorbell when the door was flung open. Sherlock noted it was John and dragged him in by the coat collar. The small flat was a mess, papers everywhere, a few notebooks laying around and several printouts from a Polaroid scattered. Sherlock was amidst the mess, a mess himself. His curls were hanging messy, bits of ink on his face and dress shirt skewed to one shoulder. 

“Did you pass your health test?” 

“Of course I did. What is going on? I haven’t known you long enough to know if this is something completely normal.” 

Everything happened fast. Flash of purple and black, the sensation of moving, being pressed against a wall. Sherlock’s face bowed to meet John square on. Sherlock was so close, John could see the details in the tri coloured eyes. What John couldn’t see is why Sherlock was that close to him. Sherlock’s eyes were not telling either. There had probably been something about pupils and pupil dilation and what to decipher about that in one of the books John had read from Molly, but John’s skills at remembering things was very poor. 

Then he knew that mysterious expression and what it meant. 

Sherlock kissed him, much stronger and less friendly than they had down so the night before. This kiss was different, it tasted like anger and haste and surprise and love. The first kiss had been sweet, simply just a peck on the lips, but this, this was not like that. 

Sherlock released him. He started to walk away, but John grabbed him and pulled Sherlock back close to him again. “If you kiss me like that,” John started, voice husky, “You can’t just walk away and pretend nothing happened because that was the most enjoyable thing I have ever done.” 

“Deal.” 

John slipped his hand under Sherlock chin and brought it close to his mouth and kissed him. It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. 

Fifteen minutes later, the dinner bells started ringing. Sherlock and John stood up from where they had been sitting against the wall. “I have to go eat dinner. I’d assume you’re going to the library?” John asked.

“No. I’m coming to eat. It’s time I ate something.” Sherlock avoided John’s eyes, which John didn’t like. 

“Are you shy? Is that why you’re avoiding my eyes?” John questioned him, voice soft. 

“I wish.” Sherlock met John’s eyes, they were filled with anger and sadness. “You’ll find out soon enough.” 

John and Sherlock walked out of the house and down the path. Sherlock and John’s hands brushed, and Sherlock noted that John smiled sadly. “Maybe it’ll get normal.”

“Are we a ‘thing’?” John asked softly. 

“I don’t see why it’s odd. I don’t see why we shouldn’t be.” Sherlock said, equally as soft with pain in his voice. 

“I’d like that. Why are you sad? You seem out of sorts today. Is everything okay?” 

By this time, they had reached the mess hall. John bounded ahead of Sherlock and opened the door for him, glancing to see if anyone was looking, and bowed for his friend, well, now boyfriend. 

Sherlock slipped him a goofy grin and they walked into the mess hall.

They left dinner early. They’d both eaten their dinner in a short period of time, Sherlock even going so far as to have seconds. They walked far from the centre of the camp and into the small wooded area where they’d talked the first night. John put his extra jumper on the rock and sat down. “Sit.” John commanded Sherlock. The taller boy had been pacing around, almost anxiously since dinner. 

Sherlock obeyed and sat close to John. “You should write a letter to your mum and Harry.” Sherlock told John almost randomly. 

“Why?” 

“Because. I don’t know. Your mum and Harry probably miss you. I would.” 

“Oh, that’s sweet.”

“No,” Sherlock told him earnestly, “I would. Because I love you.” 

John leaned against Sherlock and put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I love you, too.” 

They talked about things. Everything, from favourite food to favourite room in their respective houses. John’s favourite was the kitchen, it smelled like baking bread and was warm and homey. Sherlock’s favourite room was his bedroom. He liked it because he was far away from his family and his brother Mycroft (“He’s a total arse, I don’t really think anyone could like him.”) The only creature allowed in Sherlock’s room was his Irish Setter, Redbeard. 

“You wanted to be what?” 

“A pirate, John. Ever since I was young. I got Redbeard when I was ten, I still believed I could be a pirate. Now, once this stupid war is over, I’m going to be a detective.”  
John couldn’t imagine Sherlock Holmes on a ship, sailing across the seas. But a detective, maybe. “What kind of detective?”

“A consulting detective. The police consult me when they can’t figure things out, which happens a lot. I invented the role to suit me, but it seems plausible. What do you want to do, John?”

“I want to be a doctor.” 

Sherlock smiled softly. “I thought so. That would fit you, and if I’m correct, I deduced that when we met. And also, I was probably an arse about it.” 

“You were. But when I noticed you talking to Lestrade, I was surprised about how handsome you were. And you gave me a friend, something I hadn’t had.” 

Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head and noticed that John was shivering. “You’re cold? Here.” 

John moved closer to Sherlock and Sherlock wrapped his Belstaff around John’s shoulders and they snuggled together under the warmth of Sherlock’s coat. They looked up, watching the stars. 

“Look! A shooting star!” Sherlock’s voice whooshed. 

“Make a wish.” John told him, smiling to himself over how honestly adorable this boy was. 

Sherlock murmured something and took John’s hands. Sherlock’s long hands were almost delicate in comparison to John’s strong hands, covered in callouses from holding a gun, shooting, shoveling and in general, army work. 

“What did you wish for, love?” 

Sherlock shifted his shoulder slightly so that John’s head nearly fell off. Sherlock cupped John’s face in his hand and whispered, “I wish I could love you and no one would have a problem with it and that we would never have to leave each the other’s side.” 

That night, instead of returning to his quarters, John stayed at B. Sherlock had asked him, and of course John had said yes. John honestly had hated the personnel quarters, they were often cold and drafty. And he was sleeping in an elementary school. At least Sherlock’s house had been an actual home. 

Sherlock had pulled the chair he had in the corner near to his bed. John had his sleeping bag and it was almost like a sleep over. They stretched out, Sherlock on his bed and John stretched in between the two chairs. 

“Truth or dare.” 

“Oh. Truth.” John answered, not quite sure how serious the dares were going to be. Everytime he had played Truth or Dare with his mates, he’d always answered truth. 

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?” 

“One. I was in the first form, and her name was Sophia. She was nice, but we were young and we broke up.” 

Sherlock pondered this for a moment. “Most relationships when you’re young don’t last long. My turn.” 

“Truth or Dare?” 

“Dare.” 

“I dare you to hop from your bed to the sink. On one leg. Without falling.” John smirked, pretty sure that Sherlock was clumsy. Sherlock grinned and hopped elegantly to the sink, spun in a circle and hopped gracefully back. “Just remember, John, ballet dancers are not actually clumsy.”

“You danced ballet?” 

“Yes. Not quite “masculine” in thought, unfortunately.” 

“I played piano for a ballet troop once. Everyone was fantastic. They must be so strong to do that.”

“Definately.” 

The game continued for a hour or so, and stopped when Sherlock dared John to sleep on the bed with him and who ever fell off the bed first was a rotten egg. 

In turn, they both fell off the bed and about laughed so hard they cried. But they somehow found themselves snuggling against the other and sleeping peacefully through the night, wrapped carefully in the other’s embrace. 

A loud noise woke them up. John’s mind, normally groggy from sleep in the middle of the night, was trained to think absolutely clearly at that sound. The air raid sirens. John leaped up and dove off the bed, followed closely by Sherlock. John grabbed his uniform off of the desk where he had left it folded for the next day. He pulled the shirt over his white t-shirt and buttoned it quickly, and changed into his trousers and the rest of his uniform. He tied his boots and Sherlock raced over and kissed John on the lips. 

“Be safe, love.” 

John sprinted with the throngs of soldiers, surging in unison towards the centre of camp. There were people there, handing out and grenades and others things and different units were being called to go man the anti-aircraft. John heard unit 104 and he ran for the area where the anti-aircraft that they were to be manning were. 

Risking a glance behind him, John saw Sherlock sprinting toward the library, good, he’d be safe there. Gunfire and bombs were raining down, it had to be one of the Nazi Blitzkriegs. 

It continued for nights. Nights upon nights. The military base, St. Bart’s, was named highly useful by Winston Churchill. That night, the bombs rained more heavily than ever on St. Bart’s. Gunfire was being sprayed, and in mid-sprint, John felt a burning pain in his shoulder. He fell ford into the squishy grass. A bomb exploded nearby, destroying Baker Street E. John ducked his head under his right arm, hoping to avoid the brunt of flying bricks and glass. Something hit his leg and John immediately felt the warm blood dampen his pant leg. 

The pain in his shoulder made his brain fuzzy. The planes sounded like bees, swarming and irritating. The grass was comfortable, John mused. Cold and damp, but squishy. 

“JOHN!” 

He was warm. The air around him smelled sterile, like disinfectant. John opened his eyes and blinked in the bright light. He shifted slightly so he wasn’t looking directly into the light. 

“John! John!” John heard shoes slapping against tile. The sound of a long coat swishing. Closeness with a human being. The warm and lithe body of Sherlock Holmes wrapped itself around John. John inhaled the warm smell of Sherlock Holmes, smelling like soap and deodorant and a little bit of something called love. 

“You’re alive. Oh my god, you’re alive. I was so worried. I thought you were going to die.” Sherlock cried softly, the warm tears dripping onto John’s right shoulder. 

John smiled painfully, “I’m here to stay. I couldn’t, can’t, bear to leave you. I didn’t know if you were going to be okay.”

John was forced to stay in the infirmary for three days until he was more stable. The entire time, he was surrounded by those who were injured much worse than he was. He heard their moans of pain every night. By the fourth day he was awake, Sherlock had to call Molly into give him a sedative because he was in hysterics. 

“Please, he can’t stay here. You can give the bed to someone who needs it worse.” Sherlock pleaded. “He can stay in my flat. He can’t stay here. You just had to waste a sedative for him to calm down. I can watch him. Can you show me how to change his bandages and we won’t bother you.” 

“Fine, but you’ll have to get him to your flat yourself. We can’t give you transportation. I would tell you to have your Unit to help you, but Henry’s dead and Abe’s a mess.” Molly finally relented, frowning. She showed Sherlock how to change the bandages on John’s shoulder and his leg.

Midway through the camp, Sherlock and John met up with Henry (who was not, in fact, dead.) and Abe. They helped Sherlock carry John to B and stayed to briefly chat with Sherlock and then left. 

Sherlock’s watch chimmed. He raised his head off of the desk and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “John.” He called softly, turned around. John groaned. “Really? Already?” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock stood up from the chair and walked across the room to his bed where John was laying. Sherlock plunked down with bandages in his hand next to John’s legs. “You ready for this?”

“No.” 

“Okay. Well.” Sherlock frowned as John shoved the covers off of his right leg. John was wearing shorts, an odd thing sight. He’d worn trousers every single day he had been in the military and so it was peculiar to see the lower half of his leg. Sherlock scooted closer to John and unwrapped the bandage of the leg, careful to not have it stick to the leg. Soon, the leg was rewrapped and it was on to the shoulder. The bullet had only grazed the leg, but enough that he would probably be decommissioned and would have a limp for the rest of his life. John’s shoulder wound wasn’t as bad, though. There was a entry wound and an exit wound, but it had barely missed bones. It had gone through muscle and flesh and tendons but somehow John would be fine.

This was the hard part. It was the worst part, taking the shirt off to access the wound. Sherlock helped John into a sitting position and grasped the hem of John’s shirt. John’s face was a dull frown, ready for the pain. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah. It’s gonna suck either way,” John replied, voice soft. Sherlock glanced up and peered into John’s eyes. The warm brown pools showed warmth and held Sherlock’s blue/grey/green eyes steady. Sherlock slipped him a small smile and pulled John’s shirt up and then gently helped John get his arm through the hole. The fabric snagged on the bandages, pulling the dried blood away from the wound. John hissed in pain, and Sherlock gave him a gentle look. After John’s shirt was off, Sherlock’s eyes wandered. 

“You’re the first person I’ve ever helped unclothe.” Sherlock said softly, almost shy in the sight of the much more attractive and strong John Watson. John’s chest shook slightly with laughter. 

“Same. I don’t think I would want anyone but you helping to unclothe me.” John told Sherlock. 

Their eyes met. Sherlock’s long, slender hands made quick work of the bandage on John’s shoulder. The wound was ugly, the dried blood turning into a brown. Sherlock grabbed the rag that was in the bucket and gently dabbed at the blood, doing his best to ignore John’s noises of pain. 

Sherlock smiled tiredly as John snuggled against him. John’s wound had been cleaned and redressed and now the smaller boy was asleep and had been for 14 minutes and 34 seconds. Sherlock kissed the top of John’s head, which was resting against his chest. It smelled like shampoo and a scent that only can be described as John. The smell was comforting and smelled like homes.

It was cold. Sherlock stood, waiting outside of the hospital, coat waving in the breeze. He tugged his scarf tighter around his next, glad John’s mum had sent it. Neither John or Sherlock would be going home for Christmas, but in the course of his letters, John had explained his “friendship” with Sherlock Holmes, leaving out certain details. Mrs. Watson, a truly lovely lady, had sent John a new jumper and sent Sherlock a royal blue scarf. Sherlock had sent a few letters to his mum and dad, and they’d sent him a camera. Surprisingly to his family and John equally, he loved it. He took as many pictures as he could, pictures of his experiments, the camp. But he had a small pile of pictures of just John. He had pictures of John’s Unit laughing with him. He had pictures of John playing rugby with the boys. 

His excellent hearing picked up the uneven walking cane. He moved out of the way and opened the door for John. The sandy haired boy smiled in thanks, and walked into the cool night air. Molly followed John, reaching her hand out to steady him occasionally. When she saw Sherlock, she nodded. “John’s getting used to the cane still,” she said with a laugh, “It’s quite obvious.” 

John faked a frown, stepped closer to Sherlock. His foot caught on his cane and he stumbled, falling into Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, steadying him. John regained his balance, but still kept close to Sherlock. Molly looked at the ground, unsure of what to say. “Oh, if you see Irene,” she told them, “Tell her to come meet me at C.” 

John and Sherlock both knew about Molly’s secret, it was the same as their own. Molly and Irene were a couple as much as John and Sherlock were. Sherlock nodded, accepting the terms and he and John walked away to the rock clearing. They sat on the rock, watching the stars. 

“What do you see? Out there, I mean.” John questioned, air whooshing the vowels. Sherlock stopped looking at the sky and looked at the handsome man sitting next to him and then back to sky. 

“Well, scientifically, I see gas, primarily hydrogen and helium exploding, but in a non scientific sense, I see beauty. Probably the second most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” 

“What’s the first?” 

Sherlock looked at John. “You.” 

They smiled softly, looking in to the others eyes. When a cool wind blew from the East, they were warm together under Sherlock’s coat.


End file.
